


Blow a Tire

by thegoodthebadandthenerdy



Category: American Vandal (TV)
Genre: A little angst, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Ghost Hunters, M/M, Mutual Pining, Road Trips, Unrequited Love, but im a chickenshit so you rlly dont have to worry lmao, but not rlly yeet, its gonna get a little spooky, kind of??, soul sesrching road trip ensues, tags to be added as i figure out Wht im doing, vandal s2 never happens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-12 20:22:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16878552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegoodthebadandthenerdy/pseuds/thegoodthebadandthenerdy
Summary: Coming off of their high school graduations with a wide open summer before them, Sam and Peter get roped into road tripping across the continental United States. Alone. Together. In which the only other passenger is their increasing tension that they refuse to acknowledge.Over the course of their final summer before college they find that the world isn't what it seems to be in more ways than one.And to think that Sam just wanted to see the World's Largest Ball of Twine.





	Blow a Tire

**Author's Note:**

> soooo this is the thing ive been talking abt on my tumblr!! im incredibly excited to get this one out in the world!!!
> 
> before we get started i wanna say a big ole thank you to sav for listening to me word vomit abt this at the unholiest hrs gksjfks youre an mvp ily!!!
> 
> secondly the title? you guessed it! a hockey term! its defined as a player falling for no apparent reason and were gonna be seeing a LOT of shit tht happens for seemingly no apparent reason so buckle up!

"Hey, Gram-Gram," Sam answers, tucking the phone between his shoulder and ear as he clicks around on his laptop.

"Hey, baby," she greets pleasantly, her voice scratchy and comforting. 

Gram-Gram is his father's mother, a willowy woman who was always clomping around in rainboots and kept like seven knives on her person at all times.

Sam loves her.

"What's up?" 

"Well," she begins in that voice that leads Sam to the conclusion that something really good or really bad is about to happen. He's keeping his fingers crossed for the former, but with how things have been going lately, he figures it'll be the latter. She probably wants him to come clean out the gutters again. Or - god forbid - till Gramp's vegetable patch.

"Well?" he prods.

"Well, I know how upset you've been about the deal falling through," she starts again, and Sam is immediately thrown into a murky middle ground.

The deal she's referring to is the Netflix deal - aka Netflix had propositioned them for rights to season one of Vandal, and the production of a second, and they'd been in talks for over a year. He and Peter had been so stoked, had already been fielding emails that they'd gotten just with the buzz they'd garnered from season one. But then things had fallen through and they were going off to college and American Vandal was- it was taking its natural course of action, coming to the end of its life cycle. And it hurt like hell.

"I, yeah. Yeah."

"But, I got to thinking about it, and do you remember what I told you about the summer of '75?"

"Gram-Gram, I'm gonna be honest, I've blocked most of that out just like, for my own sanity, y'know?"

He was fully aware that that trip was the reason he had his Aunt Tiffy, not that he needed to know that, but Gram-Gram hadn't ever really been one for normal boundaries. She had taught him all the four letter words he knew, after all.

"Fine- do you remember the gist of it?"

"The roadtrip to, what was it- Virginia?" he asks, rven though he _knows_ it was West Virginia. Point Pleasant, to be exact.

"West Virginia," she corrects gently.

"Okay, West Virginia. Are you telling me to hit the beach, because I can do that in like half an hour, but I doubt it's gonna make me feel any better."

"No, sweetie, I'm telling you to get that boy of yours, come pick up Betsy Two, and hit the road. Different air will do you both some good."

There are so many things wrong with that statement that Sam could spend the rest of his afternoon going over them, but he decides to start in the easiest place, that being, "Does Betsy Two even _run_ , Gram-Gram?"

Betsy Two is Gram-Gram's old station wagon. A pleasant enough orangey-red with side panelling and a permanent stale smell to it. The first iteration, known of course as simply Betsy, had looked almost the exact same vis a vis paint job, but had been a 50s model, it had also been the facilitator of that infamous 1975 roadtrip. Having broken down shortly after Gram-Gram and Gramp had returned to California, meant that it was replaced with a 1975 Plymouth that Sam had actually spent quite a few hours in visiting his Aunt Tiffy in Washington. 

But that had been years still, and the last roadtrip they took in it it had sounded like Betsy Two had smoker's lungs and was trying to prepare an oral history for Betsy Three.

"Would I have offered her if she didn't, Sam?"

"I don't know- I'm still just trying to wrap my head around like, what you think is gonna happen here."

"Samuel-"

Oh god. The last time she'd called him Samuel he'd been fourteen, had just accidentally broken some vase that was a gift from some family they'd met on their travels for helping them 'clean house,' and he was trying to blame Leah for it because even at fourteen he never wanted to disappoint his grandmother.

"You are eighteen. You just graduated high school. And I know for a fact that you have money burning a hole in your pocket, because I signed the check. Your heart is broken, but you have the whole summer ahead of you, and I think it's time you did something about it. So, get that boy of yours, hop in a car, and come see your poor, old grandparents so they can pawn off their old lug of a vehicle onto you."

Sam sighs, opening and closing a new tab in his browser just to have something to do. "Peter's my best friend, but I really don't think that even I could talk him into this."

He doesn't realize that that's confirmation until he says it. That he's just agreed to go on a cross country roadtrip with only three minutes of bartering, and absolutely no plan.

"You'll figure it out. I'll see you two Saturday."

" _Gram_ ," he whines slightly.

"Uh-uh. I love you!"

"I love you, too."

Before he can even say anything else, the line goes dead and he's left frowning down at his computer. He sighs again, for good measure, and flips over to Peter's contact.

He stares down at the photo, one of Peter passed out on his desk with his headphones slumped around his neck and his laptop open to edit something for Vandal, pale computer light reflecting off his stupid glasses and framing all the lines of his face in a ghostly hue.

Sam had taken it on a whim, kept it because Peter hated it, but setting it as a contact photo - he didn't know why he did that, really. It made him smile when he saw it, it was the closest thing to anyone seeing Peter how he saw him, but it still fell short.

He let his thumb waver for only a second before he finally tapped the photo, bringing the ringing phone back to his face. He figured this wasn't really something that could be explained over text - hell, it could barely be explained over the phone.

"What's up?" Peter answers, and it sounds like he's doing something. Par for the course. Peter can't just do one thing at a time, Sam once joked that if he wasn't doing at least three things at once he'd explode, and Peter had only agreed, no humor in his voice.

"Uh, so honestly I'm not really sure how to like, bring this one to the table, so I guess, I mean. How do you feel about West Virginia?"

"What? Shit, hold on, I just cut my finger." 

"Dude, what are you even doing?"

"I'm cooking dinner," he calls back, voice moving farther away as he no doubt goes for the first aid tin on top of the fridge.

Topic at hand forgotten, Sam immediately jumps on that. "Seriously? Can I come?"

"You're not even going to ask if I'm okay? Or what I'm cooking?"

Sam has to laugh, really. The thought that he would turn his nose up at anything either of the Maldonados had cooked, it's so intensely laughable.

"Okay, fine, fair, yeah you can come over," Peter says as he picks the phone back up. "And you can explain like, whatever West Virginia has to do with anything."

"I'll be over in fifteen tops."

\---

When Sam arrives, Peter is stood in front of the stove, looking disheveled and distracted and not at all prepared for Sam proposing a cross country roadtrip. Then again, that was how he'd been looking since the deal fell through, so it wasn't anything new. 

"Pete," he calls, just to give him a heads up. Sam had scared him once while he was cooking, and he'd rather not have this conversation in the ER.

"Yeah, man, what's up?"

Sam and Peter have been best friends for years. Over a decade, and closing in on half of a second. The only person that Sam had known longer that he wasn't _related_ to was Gabi, and that had been because they lived next door to one another. But even still, with Gabi having known Sam five extra years, Sam would say that there was no one in this world who knew him better than Peter Maldonado.

It was even safe to say that the reverse had probably, like, a 99% chance of being true.

And with that came them having basically no shame with one another. Sam had said a lot dumber shit than this to the boy in front of him.

So he wasn't really sure why this one had him stumped.

"Sammy?"

Sam flicks his eyes up, meeting Peter's where they rest behind slightly fogged glasses. His shirt sleeves are still a little too big, boiling over where he has them pushed up his arms, and somehow he looks exactly like he did the day they met, and like no one Sam has ever seen before. It doesn't make him brave, per se, but it pushes through his guards, and he finally blurts, "Do you wanna go on a roadtrip this summer?"

His response is instantaneous. "Sure." He doesn't even question it, nor Sam's intentions, nor the who, what, when, where, how, or why. Sam leads, and Peter follows, and it makes something swell painfully in Sam's chest, that blind faith they have in one another.

Still, all he can do is smile.

\---

Later, they're in Peter's room, lying across the width of the bed instead of the length, staring up at the waning glow in the dark stars they'd stuck to the ceiling in sixth grade (in the patterns of the actual constellations, per Peter's insistence.)

"Gram wants us to go cross country," Peter repeats, Sam having just finished recounting the earlier phone call through sleepy words. He's full from dinner, and he's warm, and Peter's bed has always been ridiculously comfortable, so it's really a triple threat. Quadruple if he thinks about the fact that Peter is only a few inches away despite all the room offered to them.

"Yeah, I'm not really sure what it's about, but like. Honestly, dude? I don't wanna be here this summer, everything just feels shitty, and I don't know. Maybe it'll be fun."

"Yeah." Peter's being more quiet than usual, twiddling his thumbs where his hands are rested on his stomach, not quite looking at Sam. He wants to ask if he's okay, but it's like - of course he isn't. Neither of them are. 

"You know, if you don't want to, I'm like- I'm not gonna force you or anything. I just, I don't know it feels like a golden opportunity to get out of Oceanside, and like, yeah preferably I get to spend the summer with you, but I mean, not if you don't want to."

Peter rolls his head to the side, staring Sam down with an odd intensity, and a spark in his eyes. "Of course I want to." 

Sam thinks that maybe, if he were a little more courageous, if he were a betting man, if he were anyone else other than who he is, he'd kiss Peter, here and now.

And that's what it is, right? Why, in the three hours since he's been at his house, he's tried to give Peter as many outs as possible. He hadn't even given him the whole rundown of the conversation with Gram-Gram and he was still trying to offer him ways out of it. Because he's a coward, and he's already heartbroken, and he's so, so tired.

And he likes him. Likes Peter, that is. And he has for a while, and he wants to- god, he doesn't even know. Because there's not really any scenario that he can cook up in his head where it all goes right. Where he tells him and Peter doesn't just shut down - because he doesn't really handle stuff like that in any productive way - or cut him out - again, he doesn't process for shit - or like, isn't just generally weirded out in some way?

And it's not the gay thing, no, because Sam has been out to Peter since they were thirteen and they saw one too many Thor: the Dark World Tuesday matinees together, and it's never been an issue. It's the best friend thing, the fact that they've known one another since they were five and Peter doesn't hold many things sacred, but he thinks they are and it's-

Peter's flicks his eyes around Sam's face, over his eyes, sweeps across his mouth, and for one heartstopping second Sam thinks that maybe it's written all over his face. That he manifested it in permanent marker on his forehead or he's been mouthing his thoughts to him. But then Peter just says, "So what route were you thinking?" and the moment is broken. 

Sam wishes, god he wishes, it would stay shattered.

\---

After spending the whole night up in Peter's room plotting an efficient (Peter's idea) and fun (Sam's) route traipsing from state to state, they have only the copious amounts of paper spread around them, the uncapped highlighters, and the messily scrawled notes to show. Oh, and a messy, not at all as organized as they'd wanted it to be, route. Of course.

They'll head up north to Washington to see Aunt Tiffy, Andy, and The Kids, maybe check out some of the old haunts where Sam used to spend his time during week long trips up there. Plus, there's some famous-enough TV filming locations there that Peter wants to see. After about a week or so in Washington, they're essentially driving around their elbow for a while, letting the road take them where it wants and all that. Not that anyone needs to know that - they Googled one of those "Here's the Route to See Every Continental US State" maps and that's what they'll show their parents because technically, it's their fail-safe anyway.

As they clear everything away, Peter shoots him a small smile and says, "I think this summer's going to be good."

Sam hopes he's right.

\---

The next night they swap over to Sam's house, Peter having had an outstanding invite to Wednesday night dinner for years, to bring the concept up over overdone pasta. It causes only a mild halt - one that's somehow even less than that from when they'd brought it up with Mrs. Maldonado (who was for it, surprisingly, though Sam thought it was because Peter had been getting out of the house even less than usual, and she was worried) - and leads to the promise of further discussion after dinner. Once dishes are cleared, a family meeting is called, one that includes even the Honorary Ecklund at the table.

"Okay, hold on," Leah says from the chair she's slumped across for the entire talk. Sam hadn't even gotten his final syllable out, hadn't even gotten the 'we'll think about it' from his parents before she interjects. "I ask to go to the mall to meet up with like, at least three friends, and a trustworthy, over eighteen chaperone and it's a no go, but you're gonna let these two idiots try to cross state lines by themselves? Seriously?"

"Lee, you're twelve," Sam interjects, shooting her a betrayed look at her going to bat against them.

"I'm _fifteen_ ," she counters. "And last week I watched you Google how to make rice! You're as self sufficient as a leech, Sam."

Peter shifts beside him pressing his fist against his mouth to keep from laughing at Leah's admittedly sick burn. 

"Okay, but am I not codependent on Peter."

"He's the last person on this earth to be codependent upon - no offense, Peter - like literally. This is the guy that looked at 27 di- _you know whats_ \- and said 'hey, you could make a documentary out of this' and then _did_."

"It shows gumption."

"It shows that he has too much time on his hands - again, no offense Peter."

"I'm really not sure how to not take offense to that one."

"Children!" Sam's mom calls, clapping her hands togrther to bring their attention back to the topic at hand. "First of all, we never agreed to Sam's- proposal? Proposal. We said we'd think about it. Second of all, Leah Jeanine, quit bullying your brother and Peter."

" _Mom_!"

Sam shoots her a smug smile as she throws her head back to whine a little louder. She must have caught it out of the corner of her eye because she proceeds to shoot flaming daggers across the room so hard at him that he thought he felt them burn his skin.

"Okay, boys," Sam's father says, trying to reign them back in once more. "We'll think about it, get back to you before Saturday, okay?"

"Oh, uh, thank you, sir."

Sam can't help but roll his eyes. Thirteen years, _thirteen_ , and Peter still treats Sam's parents as if it's their first meeting. He treats Leah like his own younger, bratty sister, let Sam's parents treat him like another son, but god _forbid_ Peter forgets a sir or a ma'am or a thank you.

"All right, well, if we're all done here," Sam says, grabbing Peter's upper arm. "We're going to my room - _run, Peter, run._ "

\---

After his parents sit him back down the next night, ask a few more questions - mostly not even about the trip, but instead if he's like, okay or whatever - and then finally explain that they're in agreement with Mrs. Maldonado, Sam waits to contact Peter.

It's only a few minutes lag, but he still hesitates, sitting on the edge of his bed and fiddling with the grip on the back of his phone. It's not that he isn't going to - because he is, had been excited the minute he realized what was happening - it's just that he needs to think.

The first thing that crosses his mind is maybe their parents are conspiring, thinking that if they agree to it, the boys will back out and it won't be an issue.

And even still, he's wondering why Gram had even decided that now was the time for this.

But he keeps coming to the conclusion that he's not going to any answers, and maybe he should stop trying. He's fairly good at acting on impulse instead of like, genuine consideration, as it stands. And it's worked out for him well enough, too.

Before he can flick over to his and Peter's texts, though, to let him know it's a go, his screen lights up with a call.

Peter.

\---

"Yeah, we'll be there in - what, Pete, like half an hour? Forty-five minutes, really? - okay, we'll be there in like forty-five minutes. Yes, I promise we're actually on the way, Peter just drives like he's Sunday cruising. Okay, yeah, okay, I love you too, bye."

Peter looks over from the driver's seat of his mom's car - as Leah had co-opted the Ecklund family vehicle for some softball thing - and quirks a brow before turning back to face the road.

"Gram-Gram thinks that I'm like, playing her or whatever. I can't help it you drive ten under the speed limit at all times."

"I'm a _conscientious_ driver," Peter replies quickly. "And there's nothing wrong with it."

"Dude, if we're gonna be y'know, driving for the next two-ish months, I think we need to work on like, all of this." He motions to just…Peter in general. His hands are on the wheel at exactly ten and two, his forearms overly taught and his knuckles tense - he looks like a some kid who just got his limited permit. "Like seriously, ease up. I would've offered to drive if I knew it was going to stress you out this bad."

Peter rolls his eyes, but he does, at least, relinquish some of his hold on the wheel. After that, the rest of the drive is taken mostly in silence until a call comes in from Dylan over the Bluetooth capability. It's for Peter, naturally, and he and Dylan chat about something that Sam forces himself not to pay attention to.

The only thing he really pays attention to, mostly out of the corner of his eye where he's hunched over his phone, is Peter and the way that the tension slips out of him bit by bit as he talks to Dylan - about something for the WB's channel, Sam finally gathers half against his own will. His jaw loosens as he gets into some of the finer nuances of video editing in Movie Maker, and his hands shift down a little, and he looks the least stressed Sam has seen him all week.

Which kind of fucking stings.

But to be fair, Sam is full of a lot of emotions and has been for the better part of a month, so he's stopped putting a lot of stock in what hurts and what doesn't, and instead has shifted toward glazing over a lot of things. Which is like, whatever. It happens. (No, it really doesn't.)

That was one of the reasons he'd agreed to Gram-Gram's plan so instantaneously, why he hadn't put up a fight or thought it through. He hadn't lied to Peter earlier that week when he told him he didn't want to spend summer in Oceanside - it had just been mostly unspoken that he was hoping he could Reese-Witherspoon-in-Wild or Eat, Pray, Love, or whatever other crisis movie his way out of the oncoming existential crisis that was speeding toward him and the newly minted eighteen on his internal clock.

He had already been successful, been _famous_ , had already fallen from grace too, had already loved and lost and all that shit. And yet he was only eighteen; really, what else was there for him to do? 

And then had come college and the fact that he had to figure out what he was going to do with his life, which was something he'd joked and goofed off about for so many years that now that he was seriously faced with it he didn't know what to do. Sure, he'd made pretty good grades, done well on his SAT, gotten accepted to a college that wasn't half bad, but he still had the word 'undeclared' hanging over his head, and no fucking clue what direction to turn in.

And then there was the fact that, for the first time in thirteen years, he was going to be without Peter at his side, which was a whole other can of worms he didn't even want to get into, mentally or not.

Maybe it was silly or too much to ask from one road trip, but something about hearing Gram-Gram call back to that infamous summer from four decades before, something about remembering all those stories she'd told him about it, he'd hoped it would change his life. Put him on the right track. Help him figure something, anything out.

Fix him.

But now he's in a short simulation of his next three months and the terror is encroaching on him and singing the wings off the butterflies in his stomach and petulantly, his only thought is that he wants to go home. He wants to lay his head in his mom's lap and let her run her fingers through his ungelled hair and tell him everything is going to be all right.

He gives one last look to Peter, who's laughing at something that Dylan's said, and his chest aches like a heart attack, but still he faces dutifully forward and keeps it that way until they pull into his grandparents' driveway.

The house is a cute little two bedroom, brick bungalow that they had downsized into a few years after his dad graduated college. One room for them, and one for the potential grandkids (of which they only got two.) It was the only house that Sam had ever known of theirs, though more often than not, his dad and aunt would reminisce about the home they'd grown up in in deep SoCal.

But as nice as they made that one sound, Sam still loves this one. It's perfect for them - there's a little land for Gramp's gardening, and a little space for whatever project Gram-Gram gets into, and it feels like a _home._

When they'd make the drive out to see them every 4th, Thanksgiving, and Christmas, Sam had always been filled with an immense hope at seeing that door. Now, it rings of dread, as if it's personally mocking his faulty processing, poor impulse control, and turbulent at best decision making.

He sighs covertly to himself, reining in everything he's feeling. It had gotten too out of hand in the quiet of the car - he's going to have to figure out how to curb that if that's going to be the major setting of his life for the next few months.

Instead, he bargains with himself.

Maybe the next three months won't change anything. Maybe this is the beginning of the end of the life he's always known. But he sure as hell isn't going to let anyone know that.

As he gets out of the car, he plasters a smile on his face.

\---

Gram-Gram has on hiking boots that are shedding thick clods of dirt. She's careful to only walk on the linoleum, never even getting close to the carpet, but Sam can still tell that Gramp is itching to get the Dust Buster out and suck up the clumps before they can travel any farther.

Her long skirt sways just above the beginning of her boots, and Sam uses it to keep time while she relays a streamlined retelling of the Big Summer of '75 to Peter, whose watching her all enraptured and shit.

Peter has met Gram-Gram once, and it was for Sam's sixteenth birthday, when she and Gramp - and even Aunt Tiffy - had made all their respective trips down to celebrate the big day. Even still, Sam can't hold it against him for being so enamored, Gram-Gram is a one in a million kind of person in the most legitimate sense. 

She's walking Peter through the time they spent in Oklahoma, talking about Magnetic Hill, about how they saw the original Hex House before it was torn down (though Sam still wasn't sure about that one as he hadn't been able to find out when exactly it was demolished), and Sam's trying to stay focused enough, but he's already tired, so it's not working out great for him.

"-I have the holy water clutched in my hand," she explains in a creaky voice, one made especially for telling this story for the first time, and nothing like that of her normal tone. "Now mind you, at this point I'm twenty-two, I've barely ever left SoCal, let alone the state, and I'm staring down a supposedly extremely haunted home that held such horrors they're going to demolish it. I look up at it, the light around us casting shadows over the roof, and I'm so mesmerized by the sight that I barely register the breath on my neck."

Peter flinches involuntarily, and Sam feels his pain, he really does. It had been years since he'd been legitimately scared by the story at hand, but it still puddled dread in his stomach when he heard it.

"I tell Randy to stop messing with me," she goes on, motioning to her husband. "But when I turn around, fire burning in my cheeks, there's no one there. I've never been a meek person, I prefer to take situations by the horns-"

"So _that's_ where Sam gets it from," Peter quips, a slick, teasing smile on his mouth as he folds his arms up to rest his head in them, lending himself even more to the image of a little kid faced with the presence of a superhero, or something similar.

"Sure is," she agrees easily before slipping back into the story. "But despite that, I was scared to death. There was no breeze. No one else around - Randy had walked off to the clear other side of the property. And it was the middle of the day, nothing but pure sunlight around us."

"I remember it," Gramp says, picking up where she dropped off. "Remember hearing Babs's yelling, and the fear in her eyes when she came around the corner. We used to tan like crazy in those days, and her face looked like it'd been painted white when she came around the corner."

"We high-tailed it out of there pretty quick after that," Gram-Gram continues. "But for the rest of that trip I never went anywhere without that bottle of holy water. Made sure to keep a thing of salt in the trunk, and I never- listen to me here, boys - I never contacted anything that didn't need to be contacted."

Sam huffs a small exhale through his nose - a half laugh for rules he's heard for years. He can remember getting in the car, ready to go home after a BBQ one fourth, and his father carefully trying to explain superstition and caution to an eight and five year old who thought that on the way home they'd get snatched up by something.

"Gram, stop before you freak Peter out and he can't drive after dark," Sam calls across the table, aiming his own stupid smile at Peter. "He gets even a little scared-"

"That was _one_ time!"

"And I'm gonna have to listen to him hum Cyndi Lauper for three days because he's gonna get it stuck in his head from playing it on repeat on the way home."

"My mom's a really big Cyndi fan," Peter explains sheepishly, ducking slightly into himself as he fiddles with the edges of his fingers.

"Oh, yeah, it's totally all Mrs. M," Sam mutters back, which earns him a sharp kick under the table from Peter, who's also, coincidentally, making shushing eyes at him. He looks like he wants to shush him for real.

It was good to be in their rhythm.

"Anyway," Gram-Gram says breezily, snapping her words back to her usual voice, a rubberband whose tension had finally been released. "You two staying for dinner?"

Peter and Sam share a quick look, shoulders tipping and eyebrows quirking quickly to lead to Sam's reply of, "Yeah, sure."

They end up with seafood takeout - which like, objectively, shouldn't be a thing, no matter how good the shrimp is - all gathered around the circular dining table in the same configuration they'd found when they first arrived. AKA Peter across from Gramp, and Sam from Gram-Gram. 

The boys bump elbows and kick at one another's feet while, and it's essentially how they've been eating together their whole lives. In fact, it was such a problem that once, Sam almost killed Peter once when he kicked his leg, which surprised Peter and made him inhale, taking a shard of food truck taco shell with his breath. That being said, Peter had been the reason Sam realized he was allergic to Hazelnuts, so they were even, really.

It's obnoxious and comfortable and familiar, and makes Sam wonder if maybe, just maybe, they can make it through this.

\---

"Okay," Gram-Gram says as she patters over to the hooks by the front door. "Who's going to be driving Betsy Two?"

Sam raises his hand slightly, which earns him a slight nod. She removes the massive key ring from the hook, filled with small charms and vials and what looks like two Swiss Army Knives, and holds it just above his splayed fingers.

"Do not," she says seriously. "Remove a thing from this key ring. Treat Betsy like your sister-"

"That doesn't work, I'm incredibly mean-spirited with Leah."

"Then treat her like you would a boyfriend, Samuel. With love, tenderness, and _patience._ "

That, at least, puts him in his place, a blush firmly implanting itself in his cheeks as he mumbkes a, "Yes, ma'am."

"Good - then just bring her back in one piece, okay? Oh, and most importantly, have fun."

"Will do."

She smiles, albeit a little knowingly, at him and pulls him into a hug as she drops the key into his hand. It's a slick gesture, a little 007, to be honest. Sam grins into her shoulder.

"And don't pack light," she tells him as she squeezes him with all her might. "If you think you'll need it, you will, and it's better to definitely have it than to have to try to hunt it down while you're on the road."

He nods into her shoulder, inhaling the scent of her perfume, which is mixed with the scent of the trees out back from whatever she'd been doing earlier, and yet she still doesn't release him.

"Everything's going to work itself out," she whispers before she actually lets him go. He smiles at her before Gramp moves in for his hug, and she moves over to Peter, pulling him into the exact same kind of embrace.

Once all is said and done, Sam and Peter head out to the garage to relieve Betsy Two from her so-called prison cell. She's blocked in by a couple boxes with decorations and baby clothing and newspaper clippings, but they're easily moved, and soon Sam has the engine fired up. His foot is hanging out the side of the vehicle, the door ajar as he eases out of the garage, shining beams from dirty headlights to reflect off that of Peter's mom's car.

"Didn't I tell you she ran great?" Gram-Gram calls over the engine from where she was standing on the front porch.

"Thank you - love you!"

"Love you too!"

Peter hops in the car and backs out of the driveway so as to give Sam room to pull out into the road. They nod at one another over their respective dashes, and Sam slams the door shut as Peter putters off, a leader waiting to be followed.

Sam has this problem with following Peter any- and everywhere he goes.

It's not even five minutes before Sam's phone starts ringing. He pulls to a stop behind the stalled Peter - who's paused at a stoplight - and fumbles for his phone, answering the call and throwing it on speaker, with extra volume, before he refocuses on the road.

"Already?" Sam asks, eyes scanning the night air. The sky is so pitch black it almost looks blue, and Sam knows that the twisting gray clouds that are swiped through it are no help to Peter's rattled nerves.

"Yeah, uh. Yeah. You're grandparents are pretty superstitious, huh?"

"Oh, yeah, big time. But listen, dude, don't worry about it, okay?" 

"Yeah, sure, Sam, I just won't worry about it."

"Good, mission accomplished!"

"You're such an asshole."

Sam snorts as he sees Peter flick his blinker on - the red contrasting with the eerie blue hue to of the screen currently transmitting their call.

"Will you, um, will you stay on the phone with me, though?" Peter asks to keep them from lapsing into a small silence.

"Pete," Sam says softly. "Yeah, of course."

"Okay, cool. Uh, thanks."

\---

Barbara Ann Ecklund, also known as Babs, but better known as Gram-Gram, sits at her kitchen table beside her husband.

Randall Wayne Ecklund, or Randy, as he's been for over fifty years, but best known for going by Gramp, taps his fingers against the oaken table top.

"What do you think he'll get?" Randy asks her, eyeing the clod of fresh grave dirt at the toe of his shoe. It's all from Babs's old hiking boots, and he hasn't had a chance to clean it up yet.

"The unusual," she replies, pushing a lock of hair from her face - it's a weathered face, but one that has and still does know the privilege of being whatever is in style. "Maybe not one way or the other, spiritual or extraterrestrial - I think Washington is a good start for them."

Randy hums his agreement. "That's what I was thinking," he explains. "I'm just worried Danny's gotten too much to him, that he'll ignore what he sees."

"But there's Peter," Babs gently reminds.

Randy nods. "Oh, he'll see it - see it all. If anything, it's best that he's with him, if only to convince him to take things at face value."

"Good, that's what I was thinking- hoping, too."

"Did you finish the burial?" Randy asks, shifting gears quickly after he realizes the time.

"Just before they arrived. Everything should be well imbued by now - we should be able to summon at the witching hour, and let the Millers know by lunch time tomorrow," she says with a small smile. "Yasmin should be happy, poor girl was getting the brunt of the infestation, I think."

"It's always the youngest," Randy says to no one in particular as he hefts himself up from his chair, aching knees cracking into place. "Would you mind getting the kit from upstairs, dear?"

"Only if you get the protections from the safe, darling," Babs replies easily, pressing a kiss to his cheek as she clomped her way through to the staircase, tracking grave dirt up the red, handstitched runner.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on tumblr @wlwshehulk and you can find the official bat mix on my spotify [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/the_scribbler/playlist/5vWnuZhrUIW54qBOCddn9U?si=Zb_OT0WkR0eWe3PwVe2FGw), it's a work in progress so make sure to check back in for updates!!


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